A Certain Attraction (of trouble)
by Aggie2011
Summary: While under strict orders to rest, Aramis manages obedience by passing time observing those around him. But when he witnesses what he believes to be a murder, 'rest' takes a back seat to solving it whether his brothers like it or not. Entry in the August's Fete des Mousquetaires challenge.


_Disclaimer: I do not own the Musketeers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, it would never have been cancelled and there would have been way more episodes about Aramis ;)_

 _Author's Note: While I embrace_ ** _constructive_** _criticism remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"_

* * *

 _Well, after missing last month I'm attempting once again to write for the Fete des Mousquetaires challenge lol._

 _So, this is an entry for August's Fete des Mousquetaires challenge with is "R &R". This one was inspired by the classic movie "Rear Window"._

 _Special thanks to my wonderful beta_ **Arlothia** _who stayed up with me to get this beta'd because I always seem to come down to the wire!_

 _Thanks for reading and enjoy._

* * *

 _The real man smiles in trouble, gathers strength from distress, and grows brave by reflection.  
_ ** _Thomas Paine_**

* * *

 _May 1630  
_ _Athos' Apartment, Paris_

* * *

Aramis eased himself carefully down into the chair next to the window, taking in heavy, but controlled, breaths as he recovered from the short trip over from the bed. Wincing, he carefully used his hands to lift his leg to rest on the stool and cushion set up for just that purpose and then sat back, pressing his hand against his healing ribs.

Porthos was going to be furious when he arrived to find Aramis had transported himself without aid, but he simply couldn't stay in that bed a moment longer. It was his dear friend's own fault anyway for running late.

Besides, Aramis could just blame Athos. The other man hadn't stirred despite Aramis' various grunts and groans of pain and annoyance only moments before.

Although, that wouldn't be fair to Athos. The man had given up his bed and essentially his entire private apartment just so Aramis could convalesce somewhere more comfortable than the Garrison. Though Aramis knew it had more to do with removing him from the temptation to resume activity too quickly than it did with his comfort level.

Either way, Aramis had lasted all of a day and a half before he'd started to go mad at the confinement. And a great number of those early hours had been spent sleeping. He simply was not _made_ to sit idle. Porthos had brought him his weapons in short order and a few hours had been passed fussing over those. But as the days crept on, each one moving more slowly than the last, Aramis had sought a way to pass the time and had mercifully found a quite enjoyable one.

He watched people.

Every morning, as soon as he woke and saw to his needs, Aramis made his way to the window. Usually one or more of his brothers were there to aid him. That was not the case this morning and Aramis already regretted his bout of independent defiance. Various aches and pains were making themselves known and he allowed himself a grimace as he worked to get them all under control so they could be sufficiently ignored.

Settling more comfortably in his chair, Aramis finally turned his gaze out to the city beyond the window.

"So Monsieur Castille, has your son managed to sneak back in ahead of your waking again today or will this be the morning he's caught," Aramis wondered to himself as he peered across the alley to the baker's shop.

As he watched, Castille opened the front door to signal he was open for business. Aramis' eyebrows rose in anticipation when none other than Castille's teenage son, Roderick, slinked down the alleyway with all the stealth a half drunk teenager could muster.

"Oh, young Roderick," Aramis muttered, "I was rooting for you, I really was. I support a good bout of rebellion every now and again, but honestly. You've gotten sloppy."

He watched them until Castille saw his son, then turned his attention elsewhere. He had no desire to watch the youth face his consequences.

"Now, young Suzette, I hope you've finally shown Mathieu to the door. Ah, it seems not," he sighed as he spied the wretched young man straightening his shirt as he slipped out of Suzette's flat. "Well I suppose in the literal sense you have. But really, you could do better that that ruffian. It's only a matter of time before that temper explodes unhappily."

Aramis was prevented from continuing his morning observational rounds when the door to Athos' room was flung open.

Athos startled awake on the settee and Aramis guiltily shifted in his seat.

"Oi! What are you doing over there already? Did you move yourself?" Porthos demanded as he stormed towards him. D'Artagnan followed behind at a more sedate pace, arms laden with fresh pastry from a shop around the corner where the widowed owner was sweet on Porthos.

"What else was I supposed to do? Waste away on the bed until you finally arrived? You're late!"

"By minutes _maybe_ ," Porthos protested.

"We stopped for pastry," d'Artagnan pointed out, "considering Athos doesn't keep food around."

Athos sent the youth a dry glare, but didn't speak as he stumbled towards the bucket of water he kept on the window. Porthos reached around Aramis to retrieve it and shoved it into Athos' hands. Then the large Musketeer turned his attention back to the marksman.

"You were told not to strain yourself. Not even a week and you're doing just that as soon as our backs are turned."

"To be fair, Athos was here the whole time," Aramis pointed out.

"Don't drag me into this," Athos grunted gruffly. "I'd have helped you if you'd woken me."

"I called your name at least once!" Aramis defended.

That earned him three exasperated glares so Aramis tried one more tactic.

"It hardly seemed charitable to wake the poor man from his rest when he's taken me so graciously into his home. In fact, I would almost say to do so would have been _rude_."

"Stow it. Your talking in circles doesn't work on us." Porthos rolled his eyes and accepted a pastry held out by d'Artagnan. He then shoved it into Aramis' hand. "Eat."

But Aramis wasn't done.

"Besides, had I waited for you, I would have missed a stirring development on the streets below. Alas, lady luck has finally abandoned young Roderick. He came stumbling down the alley, likely secure in the knowledge that his father would be safely working in the kitchens. But who should be opening the bakery doors ten minutes ahead of schedule?"

"His father?" d'Artagnan guessed dryly.

Aramis slide a halfway annoyed glance at him.

"If you're going to steal my thunder at least do it with the enthusiasm such a revelation merits."

"You shouldn't be spying on people," d'Artagnan countered.

"It's not _spying_. I'm merely _observing_."

"You're spying," Athos put in.

Aramis huffed.

"If I were looking through windows and watching them in their homes, then yes, that would by spying and a gross invasion of privacy. But _I_ , in fact, am observing them only in the public spaces within my view. _Not_ spying."

His three brothers all stared at him.

"Spying," Porthos stated with a nod.

Aramis fixed him with an aghast look of betrayal. But then, as the larger Musketeer leaned down to check the dressing on Aramis' thigh, he went on.

"What about the little boy who snitches bread every day? Has he been around yet?"

Aramis grinned, both to hide his wince at Porthos' prodding and in response to Porthos' question.

"I've told you, Castille knows the boy is doing it. He just pretends to be unaware."

"Porthos, don't encourage him," Athos instructed with a wry upturn of his lips.

"At least with his spying we can be sure he's staying out of trouble," Porthos replied. Then he glared up at Aramis. "You've pulled at the wound. No more moving about on your own today, alright?"

"What if I need to relieve myself?" Aramis challenged childishly.

D'Artagnan appeared next to him, loudly placing a freshly cleaned chamber pot on the floor.

"Problem solved."

Aramis sat back in his chair, crossing his arms moodily over his chest.

"No sulking," Athos scolded as he strapped on his weapons belt.

"Keep up your spying," Porthos suggested.

" _Observing_ ," Aramis corrected, though Porthos went on as if he hadn't spoken.

"I'll bring by some food in a few hours."

Then they were gone, already running late to muster and unable to linger.

Aramis sighed and leaned to look out the window. He saw the three of them making their way down the street together. Just before they turned the corner, Porthos turned, throwing a jaunty little wave in Aramis' direction.

The marksman grinned and instinctively raised his hand to return the gesture, but Porthos was already gone.

"Well my friends," he sighed, looking through the window towards the bustling street below, "let's have an eventful day, shall we? Save me from dying of boredom."

* * *

Aramis couldn't sleep.

He lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling and nearly vibrating with unspent energy. He simply was not made to live an idle life and his days of late had been nothing _but_.

He let out a sharp sigh and levered himself up in the bed, looking around the empty apartment. Athos and the others were out. They had stayed in and kept him company every night since Aramis' unfortunate incident with a thief, a knife, and a second floor balcony. Aramis had insisted they go out this evening, enjoy themselves. Just because he was forced to be a shut-in for the time being didn't mean they had to suffer with him.

Porthos especially had been reluctant to leave him, but a few cajoling words had made Aramis' suggestion appealing enough. The larger man had all but tucked Aramis in as if he were a small child before sternly warning him not to step a toe out of bed and _rest_.

But what Porthos didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

So Aramis carefully eased his legs over the side of the bed, gripping his thigh above the nasty, deep wound made by the thief's knife. He'd been lucky, really. When he and the thief had inadvertently tumbled from the balcony, Aramis could have broken his neck. As it turned out, the thief broke his fall for the most part and, aside from the knife wound, he had only a few broken ribs to contend with.

It took monumental effort, extreme patience, and a few choice Spanish curses, but Aramis found himself back at his window chair in short order. It took several moments for his various aches and pains to calm themselves enough that they did not demand his complete focus before he got settled in the chair, turning his gaze out to the dark street.

Lantern light did little to illuminate the way for him, but it was better than absolute darkness.

His usual subjects were all gone home for the night, so Aramis passed some time imagining what the various storefronts and houses would look like if freshly painted.

Such ruminations did little to entertain him for long, and with the street quiet he soon gave up. Bracing his hands on the window sill, he prepared to stand and make the arduous journey back to bed.

The movement only really caught the edge of his vision. But years of soldier's instincts flared within him and he turned his head, focusing on the slight disturbance through the window of one of the opposing buildings without ever really deciding to do so.

It was Suzette. She was arguing with Mathieu. Without considering he was breaking his rule about not spying on people in their homes, Aramis watched them. He watched Suzette shove Mathieu hard in the chest and then watched his fist hit her cheek.

Aramis was standing now, watching them closely. Mathieu was yelling and gesturing wildly. Suzette was on the floor, crying and holding her face. Mathieu fell upon her, hands wrapping around her throat and shaking her violently.

Aramis shoved away from the window, stumbling painfully to the door and ripping it open. He supported himself on the wall as he made his way to the stairs. Here, he hesitated.

"Porthos is going to be quite displeased by this," he muttered as he braced himself and started to slowly make his way down.

He was only five or six steps from the bottom when his leg gave out without warning, sending him tumbling. His head caught the edge of a step, stealing consciousness from him before he ever reached the bottom.

* * *

He woke to whispered voices.

He lay still, feigning continued sleep and tried to place them.

"Perhaps it might have knocked some _sense_ into him."

That was d'Artagnan _._

"As if such a thing were possible."

He would know that dry tone anywhere. Athos.

"Not funny, either of you."

And there was dear Porthos, defending him to the last.

"And you, stop pretending to sleep. Open your eyes so I can properly yell at you."

Aramis knew better than to challenge Porthos when he used _that_ tone, so he set about opening his eyes. The task, it seemed, had grown inordinately more difficult since his last time doing it. It took much longer and far more effort than it should have before he succeeded.

It took his blurry gaze a few moments longer still to focus on the dark face leaning over him.

"There you are." Though he still sounded quite stern, there was stark relief in Porthos' eyes.

"Was I gone?" Aramis asked dazedly.

"Thought you might be," d'Artagnan replied. "You've been unconscious for an hour."

"What did you think you were doing?" Athos demanded calmly.

"What?" Aramis asked. He attempted to push himself up from the bed his brothers must have carried him back to, but found his ribs hurt far worse than they had before and his head pounded mercilessly.

"None of that. Stay down," Porthos instructed gruffly, but his hands were gentle as he eased Aramis back onto the pillow.

"What happened?" he asked, a hand drifting to his head as it continued to ache. His stomach rolled, a familiar jolt of nausea rising as his body reacted to taking another knock to the head. He'd never tolerated head wounds well.

"Aramis?" If one could listen below the disinterested tenor, you could clearly hear fresh worry in Athos' voice.

He must have looked as sick as he felt because hands suddenly hoisted him up to sitting.

"Get the bucket," Porthos instructed sharply and Aramis almost asked how he expected him to 'get' anything at the moment since his stomach was trying to crawl up his throat. Then he realized it was someone else Porthos was barking at because the smooth edges of Athos' water bucket were suddenly pressed into his hands.

Just in time for him to lose his dinner. He wrapped an arm around his ribs to lessen the irritation his retching caused his freshly-abused ribs.

A warm hand pressed against the back of his neck and he heard Porthos sigh.

"Every damn time," the larger Musketeer lamented in sympathy.

"This is normal?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Aramis doesn't take head wounds well," Athos explained, his tone a bit more strained than it had been a moment ago. Aramis felt a light touch on the back of his head before it was retracted. The warm had on his neck remained, though, steady and comforting.

When he was reasonably sure his stomach was back under control, Aramis wiped a hand across his mouth and lifted his head, squinting at whichever of them was nearest.

"What happened?" he asked again.

"We were hoping you might tell _us_ ," d'Artagnan replied, arms crossed casually over his chest. Though he looked unconcerned on the surface, his hands were clenched into tight fists and his eyes were wide and startled.

His confusion must have shown on his face because the hand on the back of his neck squeezed slightly.

"We found you at the bottom of the stairs, bleeding and unconscious."

"Oh." Aramis frowned, trying to remember how he had ended up in such a situation.

"Oh?" Athos' brow arched above one eye. "As explanations go, that is a poor one."

"I don't…" Aramis trailed off as memories of the night slowly surfaced. "Suzette!" he exclaimed.

Impossibly, d'Artagnan's eyes widened further.

"What about her?" Athos asked.

"He was killing her. We have to go!"

Aramis tried to stand but Porthos kept him from rising.

"You're not going anywhere."

"Who was killing her? Athos demanded.

"Mathieu. He had her by the throat."

Aramis tried to stand again, and again Porthos restrained him.

"Let me go!"

"Not happenin'," Porthos growled, muscling Aramis back down onto the bed. Aramis' attempt at fighting him were pathetically weak. He struggled a bit longer in vain frustration but a stern look from Athos had him huffing in annoyance and going still.

Porthos narrowed his eyes warily and slowly withdrew his restraining hands, as if worried Aramis was only pretending.

"You have to go check on her," Aramis insisted. "He had her by the throat." When they all continued to stare at him, Aramis pushed up onto his elbow. He went white and grunted, teeth slamming together to hold back a gasp of pain as his ribs protested angrily.

Strong hands gently eased him back to the mattress yet again.

"Stop movin'," Porthos ordered, but his voice was gentle.

"Porthos," Aramis entreated, locking eyes with his brother. "Please."

Porthos held his gaze for a long moment and then gently squeezed his shoulder.

"D'Artagnan and Athos will go look in on her." Porthos glanced at Athos, who nodded and motioned d'Artagnan towards the door. They left without another word.

"See? No reason to get so worked up." Porthos patted his shoulder and then sat back in the chair Aramis only just now noticed next to the bed.

Relieved, Aramis relaxed back onto the bed, letting his eyes fall closed wearily.

"Now that that's done," Porthos began, "what in the _bleedin' hell_ were you thinking?"

Aramis didn't bother lifting his head or even opening his eyes.

"He was killing her, what was I supposed to do? Watch?"

"You could have tried _not_ falling down the stairs."

"I had no choice!" Aramis defended, then frowned and opened his eyes to glare at his brother. "No choice but to attempt to intervene I mean. Falling down the stairs was not exactly part of my plan."

"Oh so you had a plan then?" Porthos feigned surprise.

"Part of one at least," Aramis replied grouchily.

"And what would you have done?" Porthos asked. "Supposin' you actually made it down the stairs, across the street and up to Suzette's apartment without passin' out? You would have stopped him with the weapons you _didn't_ take with you?"

Aramis winced.

"Not my _best_ plan, I admit…"

"Not really a plan _at all_." Porthos chuckled and then drew in a slow breath. "You've got to stop scaring me like that. First finding you under that balcony with a knife in your leg and your breathing all messed up. Then finding you at the bottom of the stairs with a bloody head…" Porthos shook his head. "Not good for my heart, brother."

Aramis huffed a light chuckle, only to grimace and brace a hand against his ribs. He rolled his head on the pillow to regard Porthos.

"Such is the burden of brotherhood with someone like me, _mon ami_. I'm told I attract trouble."

Porthos laughed out right.

"A bit of an understatement if you ask me."

Aramis would have rolled his eyes if his head didn't hurt so much. They both looked to the door when Athos and d'Artagnan returned a short time later.

"Suzette wasn't home and no one heard anything strange last night. No one saw Mathieu around either," d'Artagnan reported.

Aramis shifted, instinctively preparing to sit up, but a sharp glare of warning from Porthos stilled his movement.

"Are you certain?" he asked, looking at Athos.

"We made a point to ask several people. No one heard anything. And Suzette's neighbor said she had spoken of leaving to visit her mother soon."

Aramis frowned. None of this made any sense.

"'Mis," Porthos squeezed his knee gently, "you hit your head. Maybe you're just confusing things, yeah?"

But the marksman shook his head.

"I hit my head _after_ I saw him strangling her, not before. I'm not making this up."

His brothers all released a nearly synchronized sigh.

"I'm going to keep watch again tonight," Aramis decided, ignoring their obvious skepticism. "Just in case he returns."

He saw Porthos and Athos exchange a long, telling look. Usually when they shared such a look without including him it was because the look was _about_ him.

"I'll stay up with you then," Porthos decided.

"We all will," d'Artagnan volunteered. Athos shot him an exasperated look to which the youth merely shrugged. "If he's right, better we're all here to keep him from trying to run off and handle it himself again."

"I'll pretend you didn't add that last bit and instead just thank you for your support," Aramis replied as he rolled his eyes and struggled to push up onto his elbow.

"Would you just _rest_ ," Porthos snapped in frustration.

"I need to get to the window," Aramis argued. "I can't keep watch from here."

"You need to rest," Athos countered, moving to stand next to where Porthos sat. It was a gesture that showed solidarity as well as effectively blocking Aramis from getting out of bed.

"I've just _been_ sleeping," Aramis pointed out, bracing his free hand against his ribs as he tried to shift again.

"You've been _unconscious_ , you mean." D'Artagnan joined them, stepping up next to Athos and completing the barricade meant to keep him in bed. "Not quite the same thing, is it?"

"Not in theory, but in practice the results are quite similar."

"Aramis."

The marksman sighed dramatically. Athos had used his _'that's enough'_ tone. Aramis always felt like a child being scolded by his father when Athos used that tone.

"Have you all really forgotten all I've taught you about blows to the head?" he scolded. Two could use that parental tone. "Sleeping: _bad_."

"He's got a point," d'Artagnan put in with a shrug. The two annoyed glares he got for his trouble had him holding his hands up in surrender. "I was only saying."

"Well he can't very well sit in that chair all night after falling down the stairs." Porthos motioned at where Aramis still had a hand pressed to his ribs.

"Perhaps…" Athos narrowed his gaze and glanced around the room, "I may have a solution."

* * *

Aramis shifted, leaning more heavily against the pile of pillows and blankets his back was braced against. The window sat open next to him, the chilly breeze doing wonders to keep him awake. Porthos shifted next to him, the larger man's back pressed along Aramis' uninjured thigh. Despite their promises of keeping watch with him, each of his brothers had fallen asleep in various places around the room.

D'Artagnan was sprawled in a chair, arm and legs both spread wide. His head was tipped back and his mouth was gaping open. He'd been the first to drop off.

Athos had gone next. A direct contradiction to d'Artagnan's carefree sprawl, Athos' arms were tightly crossed over his chest, his legs stretched out but crossed at the ankles. His chin had dipped forward to rest against his chest.

Porthos had held out the longest, sitting on the opposite side of the window at the foot of the bed. The three of them had moved it clear across the room so that Aramis would be next to the window and no longer tempted to venture across the room on his own.

But even Porthos had started to nod off and Aramis had rolled his eyes and jerked his chin at the open space next to him on the bed. It was a long familiar sleeping arrangement for the two of them. Back in the beginning, after Savoy and the nightmares that followed, Aramis had only been able to find true rest with a warm body sleeping at his back. Porthos had spent many, many nights with his back pressed against Aramis', reminding him even in sleep that he wasn't alone in Savoy any more.

Aramis rolled his neck, trying to loosen the slowly tightening muscles within. It had been dark for hours and the pull of sleep was getting stronger and stronger as time went by without any sort of real activity on the streets below. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, really. Only someone who was a fool or truly psychotic would return to the scene of their crime.

If there really _had_ been a crime.

"Perhaps you _have_ merely gone to visit your mother, Suzette," he muttered to himself.

Then the shadows shifted near the door that led into Suzette's building. Aramis cocked his head, wondering if it was just a trick of the moonlight. He focused more intensely on the door and a figure took form.

A man of average build, features hidden by the darkness, was trying to force the door. After a moment, he succeeded and disappeared inside. Aramis sat frozen, indecision preventing him from moving. Should he wake the others? A man sneaking into the building _was_ suspicious. But perhaps it was nothing.

He was still arguing with himself when the figure reappeared at the door. But this time he had a large bundle over his shoulder. Aramis sat up straighter, straining his eyes to follow the man's retreat down the street.

 _There_ , glinting in the moonlight as it hung from the wrapped bundle, a lock of golden hair.

"Porthos!" Aramis kept his eyes pinned to the retreating figure as he reached to shake his brother. When Porthos merely grunted and swatted his hand away, Aramis shifted a glare at him and shook him again.

"What!?" Porthos growled, rolling over to glare at him in annoyance.

"He's getting away! Get up!"

"What?" Porthos asked again, this time with a brow furrowed in confusion.

"He killed her and he's escaping with her body even now! Look!" Aramis gestured out the window.

Porthos clambered up next to him and looked out.

"Where?"

Aramis searched the street with his sharp gaze, but it was now empty.

"He was…he was _just_ there."

Porthos shook his head. "I don't see anythin'."

"He was _there_ , Porthos! He had her body over his shoulder and he was carrying her away."

"You saw a body?" Athos' voice drew both their attention away from the window. He had not moved but to raise his head to look at them.

Aramis sighed.

"Not exactly."

"What _did_ you see?" Porthos asked tiredly.

"He had a bundle over his shoulder and he was moving without a lantern or a candle or anything, as if he were trying to remain hidden."

"Who?" Athos asked.

"It must have been Mathieu."

"You're not sure?" Athos pressed.

"Well it's _night_ and he was creeping through shadows so I couldn't see him clearly but…"

"So a man you couldn't identify was carrying a bundle of something you couldn't see?"

Aramis glared across the room at Athos.

"Your tone of doubtful sarcasm warms me, Athos."

"Aramis…" Porthos sighed.

"Come on, am I the type to jump to conclusions?" Aramis asked, fixing Porthos with a pleading look.

"No. But you hit your head yesterday and you haven't slept…"

"So you think I'm imagining it?"

"I think you're bored and maybe you're just seeing what you want to see."

"You think I _want_ someone to have been murdered?" he demanded, taken aback by the implication.

Porthos' eyes widened, appearing momentarily horrified by how his words had been taken.

"Of course not," Athos spoke up when Porthos didn't. He had finally unfolded himself from his relaxed position and was now leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees and his weary eyes fixed on Aramis. "Perhaps Porthos only meant that you tend to seek… _distraction_ when you've been confined for too long."

Aramis shook his head and looked back out the window to hide his frustration. They weren't wrong. He knew that. He had never done well with confinement, whether it be due to injury or capture. His tendency to push himself back into action before his injuries had healed was why they'd brought him to Athos' apartment in the first place. They had hoped that keeping him away from the bustle of the Garrison would temper that bit of recklessness.

But he _wasn't_ imagining this. He wasn't making it up to entertain himself. Something terrible had happened to Suzette, he was sure of it.

To Aramis' surprise, it was d'Artagnan who spoke up, apparently not nearly as asleep as he had appeared a moment ago.

"What's the harm in looking into it one last time?"

Aramis turned his gaze onto the youngest of his brothers, offering a slight grin of thanks for the support.

"If he's wrong we've not lost anything but a few minutes. But what if he's right? I mean, this is _Aramis_! You've both always said you trust his instincts more than anyone's."

Porthos and Athos both averted their gazes, looking properly guilty for their doubts. Then, as if of one mind, they shared a glance and turned together to look once more at Aramis.

"The pup's got a point there," Porthos admitted.

D'Artagnan frowned, opening his mouth to argue against being called a 'pup', no doubt, but Athos spoke before he could.

"We'll look into it," Athos promised, "but if nothing comes of it, I want your word that you'll let it drop."

Aramis clamped his mouth shut. He wasn't one to make promises he had no intention of keeping.

"Aramis," Athos warned lowly.

"What? Do you want me to lie to you?"

Athos closed his eyes, letting out a long suffering sigh.

"Just leave him. What's he going to do? He can't even make it down the stairs," d'Artagnan came to his defense once again.

Porthos groaned, though there was a small hidden grin quirking up his lips.

"Don't _challenge_ him like that. He'll try again just to prove you wrong."

"I'm right here," Aramis snapped. "And I'm not so juvenile as you seem to think."

Porthos snapped his head around to look at him, surprised by the sudden appearance of Aramis' temper. Aramis was a bit surprised himself. But he was frustrated and tired that nobody was taking him seriously, save for d'Artagnan. And he suspected that might have more to do with pity than anything else.

"Aramis," Porthos stated in disbelief, obviously surprised that Aramis was being so sensitive.

"Forget it," Aramis sighed, rubbing wearily at his eyes. "Perhaps I just need some sleep."

"That's what I've been saying," Porthos reminded with a teasing grin, but his eyes were still wary.

"Perhaps we should all get some more sleep," Athos suggested, settling back in his chair again. D'Artagnan followed suit, but Porthos remained sitting, watching Aramis curiously.

Aramis met his gaze fleetingly before settling back on his mound of pillows and blankets and pointedly closing his eyes. He heard Porthos sigh and then felt the bed shift as the larger man stretched out again.

Once he was reasonably certain the rest of them had settled back to sleep, Aramis opened his eyes, mind whirling as he formulated a plan.

The others were assigned to a hunt with the king in the morning, so they would be gone for hours.

It was the perfect opportunity for Aramis to do some investigating of his own.

* * *

"Perhaps not my _best_ plan," Aramis huffed as he braced himself against the outer wall of Suzette's building the next morning. At least he had made it down the stairs this time, and across the street even.

The others had promised to investigate as soon as they got back from the hunt, but Aramis was unwilling to delay. If he was right, and he was sure he was, Mathieu was only getting further away from justice.

He drew in a breath to steel himself and then pushed off the wall. One hand wrapped around a makeshift cane and the other braced against his ribs, Aramis slowly limped his way into the small building.

He stood at the base of the stairs for a moment.

"My nemesis," he greeted darkly. After another moment of hesitation, he started the journey up.

By the time he made it to Suzette's apartment, he was sweating, short of breath, and his vision kept wavering in and out of focus.

"A very poor plan indeed," he admitted, pressing his forehead to the door that would lead to Suzette's small flat. He nearly landed on his face when the door's latch gave way and it swung open. Confused, and now wary, Aramis shifted the hand on his ribs to rest on the pommel of one of his pistols. Then he made careful, slow progress into the apartment.

The first thing that struck him was the bare floor. There was a faint outline of dust and dirt that depicted where a rug used to reside. A small table had also been shoved haphazardly against the wall nearby.

Perhaps the rug had been what Mathieu bundled her in to move the body.

Further investigation revealed no additional clues, so Aramis retreated. His trek down to street level was harrowing and he very nearly fell _again_ , but managed to catch himself at the last moment. Even so, he had to spend several minutes collecting his strength against the same wall he'd rested against before going in.

He needed to find where Mathieu had vanished to last night. He must not have gone far. There were no alleys near enough for him to have escaped down in the short time Aramis had lost sight of him. So he must have taken her into one of the small buildings along the street.

But which one?

He started his search at the approximate spot he'd last seen Mathieu in the darkness last night. Then he moved slowly, his practiced gaze sweeping back and forth as he limped his way down the street.

An old, rickety door caught his eye. It was unbearably obvious that the small house had been abandoned for some time. He hesitated in front of the door, looking first further up the street then back the way he'd come.

This was his best option.

So, drawing in a deep preparatory breath, he used his cane to push the door open and then limped inside, his free hand once again resting on one of his pistols. He left the door open behind him, as the light from the street was the only thing cutting through the darkness of the small room. The shutters on all the windows were drawn and the furthest corners of the room remained shrouded in darkness despite the open door.

Aramis hovered near the door for a moment, his sharp gaze scanning the room for any sort of threat. Though his instincts told him that he was alone, he still felt ill at ease.

Something wasn't right.

He shifted, allowing more light from outside to spill past his body and into the room.

There, just peeking out of the shadows in the far left corner, he saw a tendril of golden hair.

Aramis didn't rush forward, despite his urge to do so. He made his way cautiously instead, eyes never stopping their restless scan of the dark spaces around him.

When he finally reached the corner, the rolled rug came into clear view as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Swallowing, he slowly worked to unroll it, already knowing what he would find inside.

Even so, the sight of Suzette's lifeless face drew the air sharply from his lungs and he sank to his knees next to her. Her eyes were open wide in fear, frozen with the terror of her final moments. The bruising on her throat made it obvious how she had met her end.

But instead of feeling vindicated - he had been right after all - he felt only deep sorrow.

"I'm so sorry, dear Suzette," he whispered as his fingers found the cross that hung around his neck. He closed his eyes, whispering a prayer for her soul.

The air shifted, the back of his neck tingled in warning, and Aramis' eyes snapped open.

The previously unimpeded light from the front door was now blocked by a tall, broad silhouette.

Aramis heard the familiar sound of a pistol being readied to fire and threw himself to the side just as the crack of gunfire split the silence.

Pain seared through his ribs as he rolled. His wounded leg thumped painfully against the floor and his head pounded hard behind his eyes. But Aramis had learned long ago how to compartmentalize pain when necessary. So, despite the pain it caused, he forced his body to continue rolling until he was back on his hands and knees. He reached for one of his pistols even as he looked up, searching through wavering vision for his target.

His attacker was barreling straight for him. Aramis brought his gun up, but it was too late. The murderer knocked it aside even as he fired. Then they went to the floor in a tangle of limbs. The pain, previously so carefully stored away, exploded out of its confinement and swept through Aramis so suddenly it stole his breath.

He could only lay there, mouth open in a silent cry as he tried to process the sudden overload.

Something tightened around his throat, forcing his attention back to his current predicament. Mathieu was straddling him, hands wrapped around Aramis' neckjust as he'd done to Suzette.

Aramis felt his second pistol digging painfully into his back, but he wouldn't be able to reach it or his dagger while so effectively pinned down. Drawing his sword in such a position was equally impossible. Then he remembered.

His cane.

It was nothing more than a broken broomstick, but it was as effective a weapon as anything and far more effective than all the weapons he _couldn't_ reach at the moment.

He'd dropped it when he rolled, but it couldn't have gone far. He cast out both arms, searching blindly with his fingers. His left hand found it almost immediately and he grasped it tightly.

Then he swung it at Mathieu's head.

The hands disappeared from his throat as Mathieu retreated, stunned by the blow. Aramis drew in a sharp breath, feeding his starving lungs what they craved. Then he pushed off the floor, scrambling up onto one knee and reaching for his second pistol as Mathieu regained his senses.

This shot found its mark in Mathieu's shoulder.

The murderer fell, unconscious before he hit the ground. Aramis remained frozen, arm outstretched and pistol in hand for several moments.

When his mind finally caught up to the moment and realized that the danger was gone, whatever strength he'd managed to pull together fled. His arm dropped and the pistol with it. Aramis sat back heavily on his rear and focused for a moment on just trying to get his breathing under control.

A sudden ruckus at the door hand him reaching for his dagger, though standing to defend himself was an unlikely outcome at the moment.

But it was a familiar face that burst into the abandoned house.

"Porthos," Aramis realized in relief, letting his dagger fall to join his abandoned pistols.

"He's here!" Porthos called over his shoulder before making his way quickly to Aramis' side.

Athos and d'Artagnan appeared a moment later, both looking relieved, though Athos hid it behind a stern glare.

"Aramis!" Porthos shouted in his ear and shook his shoulder lightly. Aramis turned to him with a scowl.

"What?"

He was confused to see Porthos looking incredibly worried about something.

"Suzette's here," Aramis announced abruptly, a vague tendril of vindication rising within him. "He killed her."

Athos was kneeling next to the body.

"So it would seem," the swordsman agreed.

"Aramis, what happened?" Porthos asked, nudging Aramis' chin until he looked at him again.

"I found her. Then he found me."

The worry in Porthos' eyes ratcheted up a few notches.

"I _told_ you," he called over to Athos. "I told you he wouldn't let it rest. We should have come back earlier."

"Don't worry so much, Porthos," Aramis clumsily patted the larger man on the shoulder. "I think he regrets finding me now," he gestured vaguely at Mathieu. Then with a frown, "Has the room gone a bit hazy?"

He felt himself sway and Porthos' hand tightened on his shoulder. Aramis blinked slowly, feeling suddenly drained.

"Get him back to my rooms." He heard Athos say. "D'Artagan go fetch a physician."

"Aramis," Porthos spoke gently, "can you stand?"

Aramis turned his head to look at his brother and nodded.

"Of course."

And then consciousness promptly fled.

* * *

This time when he woke there was silence.

He opened his eyes slowly, letting them adjust to the low light from a nearby candle. It was dark otherwise, so night must have fallen. That alarming passage of time had him opening his eyes wider and raising his head to look around.

"Whoa, whoa, easy." Porthos appeared next to him, leaning forward out of a chair. "Let's not go moving around yet."

Aramis let himself sink back down onto the bed and raised a hand to touch his aching head.

"What happened?"

"You swooned into my arms just after telling me you could stand," Porthos explained with a chuckle.

"I did not swoon."

"Oh you did, like a fair maiden."

Aramis glared and Porthos grinned.

"How you feelin'?" the larger man asked, eyes narrowing as he assessed Aramis for himself.

"Fine and fit," Aramis replied immediately. Porthos arched a skeptical eyebrow and Aramis quirked his lips mischievously and added, "from a certain point of view."

"Well _your_ point of view is gonna be from that bed for the next few days. Physician's orders."

Aramis sighed as dramatically as he could manage with his sore ribs and glanced around.

"You've moved it away from the window," he realized with a frown.

Porthos scoffed.

"It's been proven you can't be trusted to rest even when you're resting. So Treville's given me leave to keep you company for a few days."

"To keep me out of trouble, you mean," Aramis shot back knowingly.

Porthos chuckled.

"That's _exactly_ what I mean."

The large Musketeer sat back and pulled out a worn deck of cards.

"Now, as we've established you _attract_ such things, you aren't stepping a toe out of that bed until the physician says so."

Aramis narrowed his eyes, assessing the sincerity of Porthos' resolve.

Hs brother grinned, gaze resolute, and held up the cards.

"You want to deal, or shall I?"

* * *

 _The End_

 _I hope you enjoyed it! Drop me a line if you feel so inclined. I always love to hear from readers!_

 _Until next time!_


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